


no church shall bar our path

by NaroMoreau



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Love (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Demisexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dubious historical knowledge tbh, Dubious mythological knowledge and that's a stretch, F/M, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Jealous Aziraphale (Good Omens), Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:01:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24688810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau
Summary: Aziraphale discovers the reason behind the name Nanny Ashtoreth.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth/Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 223
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	no church shall bar our path

It dawns on him like a bucket of water straight out of the pond in St. James Park. Which means it's cold enough to freeze him down to his nether bits.

And yet-- that's not accurate at all.

Aziraphale has learned to work his way around Crowley. It's like waltzing through a minefield, booby trapped with enthralling _undulation_ and a beauty that knocks the air out of his lungs whenever he stops and thinks about it, a-- a smorgasboard of options Aziraphale wants, _needs_ to taste. Lines and curves in devilish juxtaposition made flesh to lure, bite and swallow the poor unfortunate soul who dares to even think about _possess_ him.

And oh, Aziraphale thinks. He thinks really hard. Of hissing lilts and hard angles-- of a slender throat, bobbing as it gulps. And he's there again, pleasuring himself, getting harder at every stroke, his fingers scraping skin, fumbling past cloth and restraints too human to last. He thinks of a fiery mane tickling his thighs, of golden eyes fixed on him and a forked tongue licking him clean.

A moan bounces off of the book-filled walls, silent witnesses of the wet, sticky, _damp_ mess he is. His useless, not needed heart, painfully thrumming in his ribcage.

It's a victimless crime or-- or not a crime at all. Just another, unorthodox way, of thwart the serpent's wiles, he lies to himself in the haze of his climax.

Sometimes is the Bentley. Sometimes the flat. Even the bookshop.

Always Crowley.

He's good at hiding it. He's good at whatever means not to face what he does when no one's watching. 

So they talk, and they walk and they dine. 

And he drowns, everyday a bit more, an inch deeper. Falls.

His heart throbs, and it echoes in its hollowness. He got used to it. The nature of things. More like the clever design of it all, that pushes him away from the absolute temptation Crowley is. 

The nails of the cross would hurt less, he'd bet money on it. Or even a-- a first edition. A blasphemy and a sin he's sure Yoshua would've approved. After all he wasn't a stickler at all.

It took him six thousand years but he got there. Eventually. Giving in just when he's frayed enough that another lunch at the Ritz, another walk at the Park, another almost-touch won't cut.

And then the Antichrist needed a Nanny. 

And Aziraphale fishes a memory and pastes it with the information he's just been given-- to finally know with certainty what Crowley was doing all those years ago back in Mesopotamia.

"Crowley?"

"Mmm?"

"You never told me you were _her_ , you know?" Aziraphale says with just a slight wave of protest rising. The barest amount he deems not compromising.

Crowley is tucked in the back room, trying clothes - _the human way_ \- and bending his shape to turn his vessel to back what it was in the Golgotha.

"What you talkin’ 'bout, angel?" Comes the muffled answer. 

"Nanny Ashtoreth?" Aziraphale gives a few uncertain steps around the bookshop. "I haven't completely forgotten my Akkadian, dear." 

A thump. "Oh." A ruffle of what Aziraphale imagines is silk, and takes his treacherous mind down a very _not_ angelic route. "Yeah. Er-- Didn't see the point."

"You didn't see the point in telling me the humans named you a _goddess_?" Aziraphale brows jump up. He’s not entirely sure what’s the thing bothering him to the point he has completely ignored the boiling kettle, but he intends to find out. He snaps his finger and the thing goes silent. "You do realize it's a bit like meddling in my affairs, right?"

“Well, that _is_ kinda my job isn't it?" Crowley huffes, "C'mon angel, are you going to fuss 'bout a six thousand years old misunderstanding? We didn't even have the agreement back then!" Crowley bristles. "It's all water under the bridge now."

"So, that's what you’re going for?"

“Not me, is a human expression, I didn't invent it."

“Not that." Aziraphale pinches the bridge of his nose. "Crowley, please be serious, a-- a misunderstanding, that’s what you call it?”

"T'was a very _hot_ summer, lots of mead, one or two demonic miracles of my own and a guy that just--, wouldn't give up." 

Aziraphale can't see Crowley yet he _visualizes_ the slithering curve of a shrug. The demon does give a sort of a chuckle that has Aziraphale very intrigued. 

“It was bloody funny though,” Crowley says and his voice has climbed up half an octave. A tinge of something velvety flowing underneath Crowley’s usual hoarseness. 

Aziraphale plucks a book out of a shelf, “ _When God was a woman._ ” He ignores the glaring inaccuracy in the title, a far cry from reality if he ever saw one, and turns the pages until he finds what he's looking for.

 _There you are_.

His fingers trace the lines of the statue. They're getting sweaty, traction lost over the couché paper. He's never considered the female form. He's never considered the male form in its utmost expression if he has to be honest, just means to an end given the circumstances. 

He's seen it, indeed. But the only thing he got out of The Hundred Guineas Club was the gavotte in his feet and several very scrumptious meals. A very good deal.

And yet--

He can't stop considering Crowley's form, whatever shape he so chooses. Sleek, taut, like a-- like a string tuned for the sweetest kind of melodies, pushing all his buttons if he _had_ them, or knew what that particular expression meant. 

His index wanders over the round line of the hip, breathing ragged, v-down to the joint of the statue's - _Crowley's_ \- legs.

Did the artist cast a glance at the original?

A bitter tang burns his mouth, pungent in his tongue and there his gut goes, clenching with something dark brewing inside. 

" _Astarte, goddess of fertility, sex, love and war_ ," the book says. 

The words seem to glimmer as is if they were in a marquee. And he wants to know why reading _those_ titles is making a soft ache bloom where his heart is supposed to be. 

_What the demon could have possibly done to earn such anointment? Did he fraternize with an entire city?_

Oh, he knows Crowley must sport quite a long list of notches in his bedpost. If he _had_ bedposts, and wouldn't prefer just-- hang from unexpected places most of the time. Doesn’t know the number, doesn’t need to know and six thousand years is a long time to idly wait for the right angel - _did he say angel?_ \- to get his head out of the sand.

Aziraphale knows it. 

But one thing is to have the knowledge as a background noise that pops from time to time in a recognizable song and the other-- 

Well, the other is to have history thrown at your face of what the love of your limitless life was doing when you were too busy pretending not to care. His heart twists at the thought.

Aziraphale purses his lips. He finds the 'love' part in that page, particularly offending. 

"Oi, angel!" Crowley steps out of the back room but he sounds different already. "What you think? Would this do? Is it nanny-ish enough?” He drawles. “It’s all about the looks.”

Aziraphale pivots and stares. Oh, it’s definitely all about the looks. 

The black dress Crowley chose it’s _certainly not_ fit for a Nanny. Too much skin, so _very_ tight around the waist, and _did Crowley always have such long legs_? Aziraphale struggles to find his voice but fails miserably so he grunts, his cheeks warming alarmingly. 

He should’ve been prepared. It’s nothing new. The curve of the hips, the round, perky breasts, softer face. Those lips. He’s seen that before.

_Not quite like this._

“Perhaps something with a bit more-- fabric?” Aziraphale offers, feeling like a fish out of water, the corners of his mouth twitching with a strained smile. 

“More fabric?”

“Y-yes! Like- like the film we saw for research, how about that?”

“Mary Poppins?” Crowley arches a perfect brow over the line of her sunglasses. “You want me, a thrall of Hell, to dress like Mary fucking Poppins?” 

“I don’t think Harriet Dowling would want you walking around the house dressed in such manner, dear.” _He_ doesn’t like the idea of Crowley walking around _anywhere_ dressed in such manner. 

“Why not?” And she looks so utterly baffled that Aziraphale really wonders if Crowley has any idea of how sinfully beautiful he-- she-- _is_. 

“C’mon Crowley, you know why not." His neck seems to have grown two sizes and he fights the urge to adjust his bowtie

Crowley folds her arms, long and pale. “No, no. Explain yourself.”

_Oh, Lord._

"Well--, let's say I don't think the male and female personnel could focus on their jobs with you gallivanting around like this." 

" _Gallivanting_?" She snorts "Ok, ok, I get it, demonic much?" 

Crowley appraises herself, and Aziraphale follows the dip of the neckline, down to the impossible long legs. 

"More like-- rather divine," Aziraphale blurts out in reverent awe, without even thinking.

"Don't be stupid!" Crowley snaps, voice half-growl. "I'm a demon, there's not a single spark of anything divine in me!"

"You uh- you _were_ a goddess once, I mean--" 

Crowley makes a face as if she had suddenly bitten something sour. "Oh for Hell’s sake, give me a break." Her arms fall to her sides in something that looks like defeat.

A wave of silence spreads between them, buffered by the hubbub of Soho at noon. 

"So, care to tell me, what did you do back then?" Aziraphale almost whispers raked with uncertainty, unable to control the question perched in his tongue. "Did you--”

“Did I what?” Crowley snarks.

“Goddess of love and sex? C’mon Crowley--” Aziraphale says ignoring the coil of possessive anger nesting low in his stomach.

“You think I fucked my way there?” Crowley takes off her glasses and a scathing look pierces Aziraphale through and through. “You think I fucked my way there!” 

“Dear- no--”

“Of course you do, you sanctimonious bastard,” Crowley scoffs, “what else could I be good at, right? I'm just a demon,-- _obvioussssly_ I'm only looking for humans to fall and what greater doom than to make them yield to lust with my charms and malice, _right_? _jussst_ another obligation in my line of work _asss_ the despicable being that I am," she outright hisses, all shreds of control severed by now.

“Crowley, really, that’s not--”

But his apologies are swiftly drowned by Crowley taking him by the lapels, kissing him deeply.

“I’ll show you how good I am at fucking, you git of an angel,” she spits in a slight reprieve. 

Aziraphale mind goes blank, a curl of heat unraveling in his gut. Crowley's taste blows out in his mouth, her lips soft and plump. She slides her tongue inside Aziraphale’s mouth and he nips at her bottom lip in return. The little hum she makes reeks hunger and shoots through Aziraphale causing his hips to thrust, desperately looking for some blessed friction and _oh that feels good_. His cock is half hard, and _did he even have one a minute ago_?

_He doesn’t want this to end._

He’s dizzy of Crowley's scent, of her touch. Aziraphale weaves dexterous fingers through strands of red, luscious hair, his other hand pulling her closer by the waist. It’s not at all how he imagined. There’re noses and teeth to sort out in the attempt that comes as too frantic, almost feral, as if both were trying to devour the other. Just when he's catching on the rhythm of her breathing, getting used to the softness of her skin beneath his fingers, she pushes him away.

"For hell’s sake, I _can’t_ \-- we _shouldn’t_ \-- _you-_ I'm- I'm sorry, angel," she stutters, fists balled in his lapels, speckled breath over his lips. "This is not how I wanted things to go, how I wanted to--" She trails off. "I should go."

Aziraphale steers himself catching a dainty wrist. "No-- please don't," he pants, anything remotely coherent drowning in his desperation. He bows their heads together and breaths. " _Stay,_ please.”

Crowley doesn't move away and Aziraphale cups her jaw, much smaller than what he always envisioned. It makes no difference. It's Crowley, the one he's now kissing as if his existence depended on it, it's Crowley moaning in his mouth, falling apart in his arms, his essence as intoxicating and demanding as ever.

Always Crowley.

Aziraphale surges forward, and hoists her up, fingers digging in the meat of her arse, making her eek a faint yelp that dies in his lips. Carefully, he places her on his desk oblivious of the stack of books dropping to the floor.

"Is this-- are you sure?" Crowley says between bouts of torrid kisses and Aziraphale smiles against the line of her neck. As if he wasn't already hard, standing between her legs, drawing patterns on the blood hot skin of her thighs.

"Absolutely." 

He pulls down the sleeves of her offending dress, dappling her skin with bruises through hard sucks, following the line of her collarbone. Aziraphale gorges himself with the brackish taste of her flesh, impervious to the spikes of pain of Crowley pulling at his white-blonde hair. 

He trails down, tongue circling around a stiff nipple coaxing a groan-like moan from Crowley, striving to ignore the building ache of his straining erection. She’s shuddering, wave after wave wrecking her entirely and he glances over only to get lost in her golden eyes. He doesn’t know if this the beginning or something or the end of everything. Maybe one, perhaps both. Aziraphale just wants it to be perfect. 

Crowley's putty in his hand, her sinuous motions untethering whatever faux impression of control Aziraphale thought he had. He sucks her small breasts, alternating between the two, and she gives a sound that’s half whimper half growl. 

"Az- Aziraphale, please, just fuck me already!" Her eyes flutter under long, dark lashes and she grinds her core against the front of his pants, rubbing the bulge until Aziraphale thinks he's about to come undone if he so thinks about be inside her. 

Aziraphale nods and places a chaste kiss on her lips. He takes a breath to steady himself and lifts her dress, pooling it at her waist. She gives a sharp breath when he finally takes her black panties off, and Aziraphale blushes at the gush of slick covering its center. _Because of him_. A world-shattering realization. 

It’s painful down there, even the scant motion of her hips against him becomes unbearable so he fumbles with his zipper, carefully, until he draws himself in his hand, bead of precum glistening at the tip. He can't stop staring at Crowley, pupils blown wide watching his every move, asking for attention without saying a word. 

He strokes himself once to take the edge off and guides himself inside her, slowly despite his desires, an inch at the time until he makes a space for himself inside her.

"Oh, fuck, angel!"

A grunt rents from Aziraphale's throat, and a small explosion of pleasure goes off at the bottom of his spine. The fit falls just at the side of too tight and he stills giving her time to adjust. His grip on her thighs is hard enough to bruise and Aziraphale bites his lip trying to keep his wretched thoughts to himself.

_"Mine-- you're supposed to be mine."_

Crowley collapses onto the desk and Aziraphale feels he's not going to last long. She's hot and so perfectly wet he finds hard not to just ram artlessly and let go. Crowley's eyes go shut, her fiery hair splayed over her face, her shoulders, cascading over the desk as he thrusts at a slow, torturous pace. But the seed of an agonizing thought instills in Aziraphale's mind.

… _Rough, alien hands on Crowley, the same debauched expression at the press of another mouth, another cock_ …

His eyes prick wet, venom running through his veins, freezing him still.

"Angel?"

Her voice is pleading and Aziraphale can't seem to douse the surge of rage inside him. 

"I don't want to think about anyone else doing this with you." Aziraphale's voice is deep, gravel-rough, his cock twitching inside Crowley.

"What?"

Aziraphale draws a hand to cup her jaw, thumbing at the seam of her mouth. "Tell me you want this, Crowley."

The demon's eyes are glazed, her cheeks crimson red. "I do."

"Tell me you want _me_."

Crowley opens her mouth and sucks his thumb, forked tongue circling around it, making a pop when she lets him go. "I want you, Aziraphale," she says clenching her walls around his hard cock. "No one else."

His name sounds like church bells in Crowley's lips. Like damnation and glory all in one. 

He draws almost all the way out and slams inside her once, without breaking eye contact. "Is this what you want?" 

Crowley gasps and inhales, crying out a bit, mouth open. “Yes. yes. Please.”

And Aziraphale obliges. He pulls almost entirely out, and pounds into her, making her breasts jolt. 

“Keep going,” she warbles. 

He fucks her in earnest, hips smacking against hips and he bites his lip to keep his orgasm at bay. It's overwhelming. The filthy whispers coming from her pretty mouth, the squelching sounds from her soaked entrance, everything is threatening to rip him apart and leave him bare in essence. 

Aziraphale picks up the pace, now positively pumping in and out of Crowley, groaning like a denizen of Hell. All he wants is to claim her and so he does, ramming harder and deeper.

He's getting there, balancing on the edge of his orgasm so he leans forward and devours Crowley's mouth. Teeth clicking, tongues swirling and air is suddenly not reaching his lungs. They split apart and he relishes the awe in her face and the blurry haze in her eyes. 

And he-- _golly_ , he can’t have enough of it. 

Aziraphale is close, so close, scratching his climax with desperate fingers, sparks of sizzling bliss setting aflame in his groin, fanning out, up, down, until he’s about to explode-- or get inconveniently discorporated. 

“Crowley, oh, _dear Lord_ , Crowley-- I can’t--”

He grinds his teeth, grimacing with effort and all Crowley does is beckoning him closer with her legs behind his back, fucking herself on him.

“ _I want you to_ ,” Crowley rasps, tilting her head back and baring her impossibly long throat to him.

_Hellish temptress._

_Oh, he’s doomed._

Aziraphale thrusts one last time, a second away, spasms seizing him whole and finally spills into her. He clings to Crowley, digging crescents in her skin, sparks of white behind his eyelids while he buries spurt after spurt of heavenly come in her. 

A ragged breath, then another, his half hard cock still inside her.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Aziraphale glances down to his desk where an utterly ruined Crowley is staring at him with those bewildering eyes, and the shadow of a smirk.

There's cum dripping from her cunt, and bite-like bruises around her nipples. She's the true image of well-fucked.

"Didn't know you could be so rough," Crowley teases, coltishness in her eyes, "Guardian of the Eastern Gate," she says, straining the _t._

A wave of heat arrows through Aziraphale, and he flushes. "Oh, hush, you wiley serpent."

A smile breaks on Aziraphale's face, watching her. He drops to his knees and hoists her legs on his shoulders.

"Wha-- what are you-- nnghh--"

"I can't be selfish, its against my nature, dear, I have to provide what you so graciously gave me."

"Aziraph-- oh fuck!" Crowley huffes a moan, fingers tugging at his white hair.

His lips skim along the inner side of her thighs leaving a trail of wet kisses, fingers sliding up and down her entrance. Crowley spills broken words and half sobs while Aziraphale thrusts one of his fingers in and out of her, sensing her walls fluttering around it.

“M-more, I can take more-- you ah- oh fuck!" 

"For all your wiles, you're not making a lot of sense, you know?" Aziraphale snickers, mouthful of demon.

She glares at him but a curl of his fingers makes her plop on the desk again.

Her scent is thick and heady, and he joins his lips to the teasing, licking at her outer folds. Crowley's fingers scratch his scalp, thighs tensing around his head.

"I'm- I'm almost there," she begs.

Aziraphale gives big, broad strokes with his tongue, before going all the way in and Crowley mewls at the intrusion. He follows the line of her walls, curling around it, and she starts bucking her hips against his mouth. Aziraphale scorches everything in his memory: the way she tastes, her scent, how she felt wrapped around him. Things no one could ever pry from him.

He closes his lips around her clit, filling her again with his fingers before she can complain at the miss of his tongue. Crowley arches, writhing and warbling a moan, and Aziraphale's heart swells at the flurry of emotions threatening to swallow him whole. _She's so beautiful, so beautiful_. 

His pace quickens, licking and sucking her more frantically, alternating between light flicks and heavy strokes. Crowley is chanting his name and his heart drums heavily in his chest, like that bebop Crowley loves so much. 

Aziraphale's teeth rake over the bundle of nerves at the apex of her entrance and Crowley's thighs quiver. She gives a loud, almost preternatural keen cry and finally comes, grasping at curls of white-blond hair.

Aziraphale doesn't want to miss this and gazes up to see a completely flushed Crowley, pale skin mottled in places. He laps at the clear liquid gushing out, now over his shoes, making a mess of his coat, as if it was pricier than a Romanee Conti. 

"You-- you--" Crowley tries to speak but she chokes on what's probably sheer exhaustion. 

Aziraphale licks his lips and smirks. "Glad to know you approve." 

"Oh, fuck off. I'm having a moment here."

Time ticks by, stretching long between them. 

"'bout what you asked me earlier--" she finally says sitting at the edge of the desk, trying to smooth her wrinkled dress, eyes fixed on the rug.

Aziraphale hurries to stop her. To tell her it makes absolutely no difference. Words spilled during carnal activities hardly ever bear significance. To demand something else? Pathetic to boot.

"No, Crowley, please, you don't owe me an explanation."

"But--"

"Really, dear, I'm quite fine without knowing."

"Angel--"

"Crowley I--" 

"Could you just shut your trap?!" 

Aziraphale's breath whooshes out of his lungs. Outside, a car engine starts.

"It's not at all what you imagined, you know?"

Aziraphale feels a lump stuck in his throat, and waits with a sense of foreboding.

"Those people were dying angel-- no food, no water, the Bronze Age wasn't very nice, you know that," she says and Aziraphale gives an encouraging and thoughtful 'mhm'. "Humans are better alive than dead-- for demonic temptations-- so yeah, some snaps and boom, I was the most popular wench around."

Crowley goes silent, and seconds trickle away. Aziraphale feels a weight lifted from him, a modern Atlas relieved from duty and scrambles to find something to say.

 _I need you_.

_Please don't go._

_I'm not a sanctimonious git._

Well, perhaps the last bit can wait.

"Well, better be going," she says getting up, "peonies are slackers and will wither if I'm not around."

This is it.

Crowley will go. They will keep working and will pretend none of it happened. As if her body writhing beneath him, her slick lingering in his mouth was-- nothing. Crowley won't push him and--

He can't take it. 

_Won't take it._

Aziraphale lets out a sigh, heavy with longing. "I love you."

Crowley stops dead in her tracks. Slowly, she turns around and faces him.

"What--"

"I love you, Crowley," Aziraphale says and closes the distance between them, feeling like a confounded arse. "I-- I know it took me a long time--"

"Bloody damn long," she bristles.

And then she smiles, her annoyance crystalizing in utter glee. A daisy under the sun. Not that he'd ever tell her under risk of being painfully discorporated.

They kiss, and the world gets shut out around them. Long minutes pass before they remember their corporations need to breath.

"And now?" She looks stricken. Fear hangs heavy in her voice.

"Well, dear, it seems we just added another reason to avert Armageddon," Aziraphale says, but terror brims just under the surface, so he reassures them both. _"I won't lose you_."

There’s a roar, a rush of blood in Aziraphale’s ears. It’s terrifying. His mind is crammed with decisions and orders, images of the past, and hopes for the future and even Gabriel makes a rather frightening appearance. 

And then Crowley smiles. 

"I love you, angel."

Whatever dregs of cowardice were in him, they vanished right in that moment. The wonder in that face-- He’d never get used to it. 

"I love you too, Crowley.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  



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